My father didn’t even look at me. He stabbed at his plate with a plastic fork and muttered: “Why waste it on him? He’s from a broken home.”
Just like that.
The word “waste” hit me first. Then “broken.”
It was the ease of the judgment that tore something inside me. No hesitation. No consideration. Just a casual dismissal of my son, delivered between bites of potato salad.I stood there frozen while the music played. Elias went very still, his fork hovering. He didn’t look up. He just lowered his eyes and took another bite of coleslaw, his jaw tight.
I felt my throat closing. I wanted to smash that plastic cup and shout that he didn’t even know my son. That Elias had a 4.0 GPA. That he’d scored in the 99th percentile on the SAT. That he volunteered at the food bank every weekend. That he was kind and brilliant and better than any of us.
